HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

The cast of Mike & Molly gets a nice long break in December, but McCarthy isn't planning to rest up. There's way too much to do. Favorite movies like A Christmas Story and It's a Wonderful Life need to be watched for the umpteenth time, and parties must be planned and cookies baked: "I make a mean coconut macaroon," McCarthy says proudly. Plus, there are trees to trim: The family tannenbaum gets decorated with homemade baubles and techie ornaments that record the voices of her daughters and her older sister Margie's kids. And in Vivian's room resides a seven-foot-tall hot-pink artificial tree they've put on a dimmer switch so she can use it as a nightlight. Every Christmas Eve, McCarthy continues a "one-pot dinner party" tradition that Ben's mother started. "We have everyone over and make a potful of meatballs for submarine sandwiches. Then we each open only one present," she explains. "But on Christmas morning, it's carnage  wrapping paper flying everywhere."

McCarthy laughs as she recalls the joys of her own childhood holidays, spent on a farm in a small town outside of Chicago. "We got snowed in a lot of the time, and once we couldn't get any groceries, so Christmas dinner was hot dogs from the freezer  which was awesome," she says gleefully. And so were the presents: "My sister and I received Barbie salon sets, where you do the hair and makeup. I thought, My God, my head's going to blow off my neck," she laughs. "And then there was another doll that came with a formal dining room set and little dishes. I would just sit there like a lunatic and set the table for, like, an hour and a half, and my mom was like, 'Best. Gift. Ever.' "

Years later, Mrs. McCarthy would give her daughter "the best worst Christmas present ever," McCarthy says, cracking up. "She will never live it down. It still makes us laugh." Fashion fanatic McCarthy was 21 at the time, living in New York City and barely able to cover her rent, but still wearing chi-chi Hermès scarves and shoes from Bergdorf Goodman. "I was in great shape," she remembers. "And on Christmas I open this box from my mom, and I pull out these polyester permanent-crease old-lady pants with an elastic waistband. And I'm like, 'What are these?' And my mom's like, 'Black slacks! Who couldn't use black slacks?' My sister and I were literally bawling from laughter. We could not get it together. I put them back and went to reach for another present and Mom goes, 'Don't bother: charcoal and navy blue.' She bought me three different pairs of these pants, and a pair of footie pajamas. I was like, 'Mom, I'm 21. What are you doing to me?' "

FROM GOTH TO GRATEFUL

It's hard to imagine now, but there was a time during her high school years when student-council member and cheerleader Missy McCarthy, as she was then known, dressed in head-to-toe black, dyed her hair blue-black, and pulled a cape over her shoulders to go out dancing to gloomy eighties goth music in downtown Chicago. "I just didn't want to go to the same house every weekend and watch the same four girls switch boyfriends," she explains. "I got bored." (For moms who might be going through those "You're not going out like that" battles with their teenagers, here's a McCarthy-ism: "They want to be different. Just get 'em the pink hair dye. Who cares? It's only hair.")

In her hometown, however, McCarthy's every-day-is-Halloween wardrobe mystified neighbors and rattled the nuns at her Catholic high school. Her parents took the high road: They thought it was hilarious. "I have a funny family," observes McCarthy, who grew up worshipping Carol Burnett. "Sitting around the table for dinner at our house, you tried to make people laugh."

Her father, Mike, commuted to Chicago, where he served as an arbitrator for a freight railway; her mom, Sandy, worked for World Book Encyclopedia. They didn't want to raise Margie and Melissa, three years her junior, in the big city, so they settled on a corn and soybean farm along a gravel road. "There was no mall, no fast-food restaurants," McCarthy remembers. "My sister and I gave my parents a hard time. We wanted to live in a subdivision."

McCarthy remains incredibly close with her folks and values her solid Midwestern upbringing, which emphasized honesty, hard work, and gratitude. "We always said grace at the table and we went to church," she says. "I believe it matters how you treat people. I believe in heaven. I don't believe that this is it, and then we're done. I have a lovely relationship with God, although when I've lost someone or I've seen a sick child, I've had conversations with Him in which I've had to ask, How can that be right?" Though she loves the quiet of church, she says she doesn't need to be inside one to pray and doesn't think it matters where you are and how you do it. "My girls and I pray before they go to bed. It's the cutest thing ever to hear Georgie go, 'Tank ooo, God, for Mama; tank ooo, God, for Papa.' "

McCarthy feels equally grateful for her parents and their unwavering belief in their children. "They were really respectful of us. That enables you to have confidence," she notes.

"It was never, 'You're not going to be an actress; that's crazy.' All of the things they'd have been totally right saying, they never said," she adds. "And even when I was in New York City and way past the point where you should still be calling your folks, they were always quick to chip in if I came up short on rent."

Her friends were supportive, too: High school buddy Brian Atwood, now a successful shoe designer, convinced McCarthy, who had impatiently dropped out of college, to move to Manhattan in the early nineties.

"I didn't have any money," she recalls, "and he said, 'So what? Now you won't have any money in New York. What's the difference?' " McCarthy arrived with $45 in cash, and Atwood signed her up for an open mike night in a comedy club.

Dressed in outrageous wigs, and telling stories about how tall and pretty and wealthy she was, the 5' 2" newbie got big laughs  and discovered her destiny.

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